Corpus Delicti
by rightersblock
Summary: To catch a killer, you must first prove that there was a crime. BB
1. Preface

Just as an introduction, I realize that its been a year and a half since I updated my last Bones story. In my defense, its been a really busy year and a half :-) So I am sorry. Anyway, I recently saw an episode of Bones, and it made me remember the series, and made me want to write for it again. I've only seen through part of season two, so fair warning. I promise I'll try to update this more often than my last story, which I'll work on some more at some later time. For this story, just so you know, Bones and Booth are already together. I'm not sure about other couples yet. Anyway...I have no real plan for this so far, so let's find out what happens together. Enjoy...

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Hello, Temperance.

You don't know me. Why would you? I'm not someone you would notice. I blend into the background. I'm easily lost in a crowd. Sounds horrible, to some people. Not to me.

For me, it's a skill.

The psychiatrist when I was kid told my dad that I was sick. He called me sadistic. He said I was narcissistic, too. And masochistic. A lot of istics…I'm obsesessive-istic also, Temperance. And sometimes anti-social-istic. Occasionally I'm right on the edge of being borderline-istic. Ha ha. I'm funny, too. Funny-istic.

But this doesn't matter to you, does it, Temperance? You hate psychology. Want to know a secret? I hate psychology, too. We have that in common. We're kindred spirits. Do psychologists make you feel sick, too? Does your vision turn white when you see them? Mine used too. But I'm better now. My psychiatrist said that to deal with problems, we have to get to the root cause. So I did. I went to that root and cut it to tiny, tiny pieces. I'd show you, but the pieces are gone now. I put some of them back in the office when I was done. Best therapy session we ever had. Ha ha. I wish I could show you, though. I think you would have liked it. We have that in common, the way we love dead bodies.

Have you ever heard of the _corpus delicti_, Temperance? I'm sure you have. It's Latin. When I first heard it, I thought of delectable corpses. But it's different. I found out that it means "body of crime." It's the fact of a crime having been actually committed. It means that before someone can be convicted of a crime, it has to be proven that a crime has been committed.

Hello, Temperance.

You don't know me.

But you will.

Soon.

Ha ha.

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I'd love to hear from anyone who has anything to say


	2. Chapter One

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Hope you like this one. I'm still working on how everything is going to go, and if anyone has suggestions, I'm open to them, just let me know. Fair warning...I've got my first ever round of law school finals coming up, so I have this slight feeling that I'm going to be a little busy for a bit...it might take some time to review. But you're used to that from me, right? :-) Enjoy

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Seeley Booth was a morning person. He always had been. What was there to not like? The air was so fresh and clean first thing in the morning, coffee tasted better, cereal was crunchier. You always felt better in the mornings, because you had just gotten a good night's sleep. You had that little space of time right after you got up when you could pretend that the world was in a better shape than you had left it when you went to bed the night before, because you hadn't seen the paper yet. You didn't tend to get a lot of phone calls first thing in the morning, which made it the only space of daylight where you were really left alone. And if you were lucky enough to have someone, you got that special added bonus—waking up all comfortable and nestled under the covers with her beside you, warm, breathing deeply and evenly, soothing and peaceful. Maybe you were tucked against her back, or maybe she was turned with her face cradled near your neck.

Yes, mornings were good. There was no denying that.

Or, at least there usually wasn't. I mean, yeah, in general mornings were great, but just like anything else, they could be crap, too—those mornings when the sirens of some impromptu car chase happening _right outside your apartment_ wake you up at 5am, and you would just ignore it and go back to sleep, but you can't because your girlfriend stole all the covers and her elbow is sticking in your ribs, so you just get up but you forget that the hot water is broken in the shower. So, you shiver through that pretty quickly and head to the kitchen only to realize that the milk is sour right after you poured it in your coffee and on your cereal, and that little punk down the hall stole your sports section again—where does he _go_ that early in the morning? So you find a box of stale Pop Tarts in the cabinet and you start to eat one of those, but then your cell phone rings and it's your boss…

"Booth."

"Yeah, Booth, we need you to go ahead and come in early," came the abrupt voice on the other end of the line.

"Uh, okay, let me just…"

"Great, see you in 20." Booth caught the brief blaring of a car horn before his boss hung up.

"Great," he muttered to himself as dropped the phone onto the table and headed into his room to find a clean shirt and some pants. "Just great."

Mornings sucked.

* * *

At 8:30am Angela Montenegro was sitting in her office, manipulating the pixels in the image on her computer screen. She let out an absentminded yawn, vaguely feeling the heat of her coffee cup warming the palm of her left hand as her sat bent against it, loosely threaded through the ceramic handle. She had arrived a half hour earlier, and though she had only really begun working in the last few minutes, her brain was already drifting into autopilot. The lab was still relatively quiet, though the buzz of work was beginning to pick up…the hallways filling, people talking as moved toward their offices, their paper work, their research.

"Whatcha working on?" Hodgins asked as he walked into the room. Angela smiled to herself. No greeting, no prelude to his entrance, not even the use of her name…just jumping in, in the middle of some conversation.

"Good Morning, Jack, how was your weekend?"

Hodgins leaned toward the screen. "Thick paper…looks dry rotted." He squinted. "Indentations under the text? Looks like it was made on some kind of old typewriter…"

"It's a book. An old book. I'm just seeing if I can piece together what it was."

"Mmm," said Hodgins, with a short nod. "So, I'm guessing this has nothing to do with Booth…?"

Angela sighed and leaned back in her seat. "No."

Hodgins sat down on the edge of her desk. "Well…that's good. I mean, not having a murder to work on, because…murder is…bad."

"Right. Bad. Very bad. I'm _glad_ we don't have a case."

"Yeah, me too," replied Hodgins. "Plus, you know, not having a case means I can actually get my real work done, you know? Just pure science and research; I just…love that."

Hodgins and Angela gave one another a look. "Soo…" Hodgins continued. "Have we, uh, heard from Booth…?"

Just then, Cam walked in. "Hey, guys, can you come out here for a minute? Booth's here to see us."

Angela and Hodgins glanced at each other, then nearly knocked one another over heading for the door.

"This is the fourth one we've found, same setup, every time," Booth said, as the squints looked over the photographs he had given them. "The victim is reported missing, cops go to search their place, and this is what they find."

"And…what is it exactly that they're finding?" Angela asked, looking at the photograph she was holding. The picture was one of a series of shots of an apartment, somewhat sparsely decorated, though very neat and orderly. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

"All of the apartments are clean," Booth answered.

Cam hesitated for a beat. "…clean. As in…?"

"As in clean. Too clean. The cops go in, and these place reek of cleaning products: bleach, lemon pledge, you name it."

"Covering up from someone being murdered in the apartment?" Hodgins asked.

"Maybe, but it's more than that. These places haven't been spot-cleaned, like someone would do if they were covering up for killing someone there, they are _cleaned_ cleaned. The floors are vacuumed, the curtains are washed, the windows are scrubbed, the beds are made…hell, even the _fridges_ are spotless inside. In one of them the officers even reported that they thought a spot on the wall had been touched up with paint. They're virtually _flawless_."

"So…someone is breaking in and…cleaning?" Hodgins asked.

"The victim's reported missing, the cops go in to search, and this is what they find."

"And where are they finding the bodies?" Brennan asked, looking through the pictures.

"They…" Booth cleared his throat. "…aren't."

The squints all looked up. "That's the thing," Booth continued. "We haven't found the victims yet. Only these crime scenes."

"Then how do you know you're dealing with a murderer?"

"Call it a gut instinct, alright? Plus, at every scene, the cops have found things that don't belong. And these." Booth pulled four letters out of the FBI folder. "Letters."

The squints began looking at the photocopies. They were all typed in black ink, in a non-descript font. They were justified in the center, and each varied slightly in wording. The one in Temperance's hands read:

hello.

thank you for coming.

i am sorry that i am not here right now, but help yourself to the food.

i made it for you.

please, make yourselves comfortable, but please do not put your feet on the furniture, and leave your shoes by the door.

i have spent such a long time cleaning, and i would upset me so if it got dirty just yet. i am sure you understand.

again, i am sorry that i missed you, but i do so hope that we can meet again.

i'll be in touch.

sincerely yours,

thomas

"What food is he talking about?" Brennan asked.

"At every scene, there have been baked goods. Cookies, pie…it's different every time. We've tested it all…none of it is poisoned. It's just…food."

Angela looked up. "That's…bazaar."

"To say the least. Now just need to figure out what he's done with these people." Booth clapped his hands together. "So. What can you tell me?"

Brennan looked at him. "This letter in no way indicates that someone has been murdered. And without a body…"

"Well, if we could determine what cleaning products were used, and if we took some air samples we might be able to get a read on if there was anything in them that was decomposing at some point…plus, if these places were as clean as you say, dust accumulation could give us an indication of when they were last cleaned…"

Booth smiled and pointed to Hodgins. "See? Right there, _that's_ what I'm talking about! That's kind of thinking we need." Booth turned to Brennan, "why can't you be more like, Hodgins, huh?"

Brennan, still holding a copy of the letter, glanced at Booth. "That seems like a question that could easily lead into a comment about your sexual proclivities."

Booth's face turned red, as Cam lifted a hand in front of her mouth to hide her smile.

"So, he calls himself Thomas? Doesn't exactly instill fear…" Angela commented. She shook her head. "Why is this an FBI case, anyway?"

"The first scene was in Alexandria, Virginia, one was in D.C., and the last two were in Baltimore. Crossed state lines." He clapped his hands together again. "Alright, let's catch a criminal."

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Reviews are welcomed and enjoyed

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